


On The Inside

by Aichi



Category: Cardfight!! Vanguard
Genre: Body Horror, Gore, M/M, Starvation, Suicide Attempt, Vomiting, Vore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 20:28:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7376233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aichi/pseuds/Aichi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ibuki reverts to his true self. It's not pretty. (Heavy content, please check the tags.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	On The Inside

**Author's Note:**

> I'm serious, please check the tags, I don't wanna be responsible for anyone reading anything upsetting.
> 
> (On that note, please tell me if I missed tagging anything.)
> 
> There's no rape or actual sexual content at all here, that tag is just for safety since the parallels are pretty blatant if you read it that way.

Kouji Ibuki has always been a distant kind of person. He doesn't talk to people without reason, doesn't ask for help with anything, and he certainly doesn't let anyone get close to him, in any sense of the phrase. It makes everything that much easier, especially when the _changes_ start.

He'd known, deep down, that something like this was going to happen eventually, but he'd refused to confront the idea, wanting to believe that he really was free of _them_. Maybe if he just ignored them, they'd decide he wasn't worth the trouble. Maybe they'd stop invading his dreams and whispering in the back of his mind and reminding him of what he really was. Maybe they'd just leave him alone and let him pretend to be human again.

It was a stupid wish, really.

No one else notices anything wrong with him, of course, and at first it's easy to hide the lumps that start forming under his skin.

Two rows of them run side by side down his back, and they grow visibly bigger every day, red and swollen like ripe fruit. Surprisingly, it doesn't hurt when they start to split open, in fact, he only realises it's happening when the _smell_ hits him – the thick, dark liquid they secrete stinks of rot and oil and dead things, and the stench lingers on him even once he wipes all the mess away, revealing what was forming inside. The newly-exposed ridges of bone are small and blunt at first, but they grow quickly, segmenting and protruding further until they're each several feet long and resemble spider limbs. (He repeats the word _spider_ to himself over and over, because it's better than accepting the alternative.)

He binds them flat against his back with bandages and starts wearing thicker jackets.

Any small hopes he'd had that ignoring the problem would somehow make it go away are quickly crushed when he wakes up one morning with a dull ache in his hands. Lifting one up in front of him, he notes numbly that his fingers have apparently grown an inch overnight, his skin pulling tight over the elongated bones and making them look gaunt and emaciated. He can hardly muster the energy to be horrified by the change, even less so when his feet begin similarly deforming over the following days. At the same time, his nails grow too, hardening and curving into claws, and he breaks two files and three pairs of nail clippers before accepting he can't do anything about it. He starts wearing gloves at all times, shrugging off questions about why he's so poorly dressed for the middle of summer.

The problem becomes unavoidable once his feet no longer fit in his shoes, and when the tail starts sprouting, he makes the decision not to leave his apartment any more.

 

The longer he waits, the worse it gets, but he's not about to ask for help. There's nothing anyone can do for him, anyway. He's not in pain. Everything happening to him feels disgustingly natural.

It's only a matter of days before the tail reaches what is apparently its full length, six feet of pale, off-white flesh stretching thinly over newly-formed bone. After a bit of experimentation, he finds that he has full control over it, and with a little concentration and precision, can even use it to curl around and pick up objects. It all comes to him so easily, the movements happening almost without even thinking about them, as though it's been a part of him his whole life.

The idea disgusts him. He lets the tail drag limply behind him as he moves.

It doesn't stop there, of course, and he hates the way he grows less and less horrified with each new change. His fingers continue to grow, and his arms with them, until his fingertips hang down past his knees. The bones in his legs shift and rearrange themselves, and at some point walking on all fours becomes easier than upright. His skin turns pale and milky, and begins to take on an uneven, scaly texture, starting around the base of his tail and slowly working its way up his spine and across the rest of his body. He doesn't even know what his face looks like any more. He can't bear the thought of looking in a mirror and seeing a Deletor stating back at him.

He can't keep living like this.

It takes several weeks of his self-imposed exile before anyone thinks to look for him, and even then, all he gets is a simple text from Miwa, asking where he is and if he's okay. _Everything's fine_ , he responds, _don't worry._ _I'm just busy_. Not long after, he gets a similar text from Mamoru, and when he goes to reply, he fumbles the phone in his deformed hand and it falls, screen shattering on the floor.

Maybe that's for the best, he thinks, staring numbly down at the broken shards of glass. He's already decided he's going to die alone in this apartment, and the last thing he needs is any sentimental attachments making him change his mind. There's no other choice, really. He has to end this, while he still has a chance, before someone finds out, or before he loses control of himself and does something terrible.

He's not going to drag anyone else into this mess. Especially not Mamoru.

 

More weeks pass, and Ibuki's body won't let him die. He tries, several times, slitting his throat and wrists and watching thick black blood ooze from the wounds until he passes out, but each time he wakes again, scars already healing over. When he tries hanging himself, the lack of air isn't even enough to render him unconscious. Nothing works.

But no matter how resilient it is, his body surely still needs food to survive.

He locks himself in his bedroom and kicks the key under the door, where he can't reach it. In his current state, he could tear the door off its hinges easily, of course, but it's more of a gesture of commitment than anything. He's not leaving. With no way out and nothing to eat, it's only a matter of time until the monster starves.

 

He can't say for sure how long he spends alone in that room. Maybe only a few days. Maybe months. After a while, he starts to feel detached, like he's somehow separate from the rest of reality. Somewhere out there, Mamoru and the others are off living their lives, going to work and school, playing Vanguard, being human, moving on without him while he's trapped in perpetual nothingness. It was silly of him to think he could ever fit in with normal people like them. He's not sure why he even tried. He's not sure of anything any more, other than the painful, gnawing hunger in his stomach. It was barely noticeable at first, but it seems like no time at all before it's so strong it's all he can think about. He needs to eat, so he can keep growing, keep changing, keep becoming – whatever this is. His true self, apparently.

Most of his time is spent curled up on his bed, tail wrapped around himself, barely moving, barely even breathing, just waiting as his body slowly grows weaker and weaker. Outlines of ribs are clearly visible through his skin now, and his arms and legs are so thin they resemble the spider limbs on his back more than anything else. Any false pretences of humanity have been long since stripped away from his practically skeletal body. The hunger in his belly is ever-present, churning away inside him, and he can't stop thinking how easy it would be to tear the door open and go out there and just _feast_ on whatever he can find. It takes every bit of willpower he has to hold himself back, to remind himself that it's only a matter of time. The end feels so _close_ now. Even monsters can't live forever without something to sustain them.

That's when he starts seeing things.

They don't feel like hallucinations, more like – _images_ , thoughts being pulled out of his mind and shown to him, played back over and over like a movie. It's _them_ , of course. They're trying to remind him. Trying to coax him back to his true self. Trying to convince him to give in.

“ _I always knew there was something wrong with you_ ,” Chrono says, “ _I should've known this was what you really were_.”

Ibuki lashes out at him. His claws pass harmlessly through the air.

The images of Mamoru are the worst and cruelest of all. He doesn't speak, just draws close, hands on either side of Ibuki's face, and kisses him. It's soft and tender and sweet and everything Ibuki ever wanted out of being human but couldn't have. He can't imagine anything more torturous.

 

When he first hears the knocking on the door, he thinks it's _them_ playing another trick on him, and ignores it.

Then he notices the _smell_. It's indescribable, but familiar somehow, and it reminds him of honey, strong and mouthwateringly sweet, the most perfect, tempting, delicious thing he's ever smelled in his life. For the first time in what feels like weeks, he sits up.

“Ibuki?”

His stomach flips. The voice is muffled, coming from the hallway outside the apartment, but the person it belongs to is unmistakable – and it's the last person Ibuki needs to see right now, but also, the _only_ person. He has no idea how Mamoru even found his address.

“Ibuki, are you in there?” There's another knock, and then the sound of the doorknob turning. “I'm coming in.”

Ibuki silently curses himself for not locking the front door – it hadn't seemed important at the time, because who was going to come looking for him? But of course, he should have known. Of _course_ the kind, thoughtful, ever-helpful Mamoru Anjou would refuse to leave him alone. He shouldn't have bothered. There's nothing he can do, and Ibuki isn't worth the trouble anyway.

(Part of him is happy, somehow, that Mamoru came for him, because it means he cares, but also, it's terrible, because it means _he cares_.)

Footsteps echo in the apartment, the sounds vibrating almost painfully through Ibuki's hyper-sensitive body. _Go away_ , he wants to scream, _just leave me alone_ , but he knows Mamoru will never leave if he makes his presence known, and he's not sure he could speak even if he wanted to. Just forcing air down his rough, dry throat into his lungs is hard enough in his weakened state. He waits silently, crouched perfectly still as the footsteps move around in the other room. The smell from earlier is stronger now, even more tempting, and it reminds him how _empty_ his body feels, how badly he needs to eat. It's starting to become difficult to concentrate, the ache in his stomach practically burning, demanding his attention. The scent gets more and more overpowering as the footsteps outside draw closer, and he realises with growing horror where he's smelled it before – it's Mamoru. It's his hair and skin and flesh and blood, magnified dozens of times over by his inhuman senses, and it smells _delicious_. The thought should be nauseating – _is_ nauseating, some tiny, forgotten part of his mind screams – but god, he's so hungry. Drool begins to pool in his mouth.

“Ibuki?” Mamoru's voice is so close now, and it pierces his gut like a knife. The sound of that name – the fake human name he'd given himself so he could _pretend_ – spoken in that concerned, anxious tone makes his stomach twist, in a way that could be from fear or regret or just overwhelming hunger. They all seem to blend together now, and he can hardly tell which is which. He shivers silently as the footsteps approach his bedroom door.

When the doorknob rattles, he can't contain himself any longer, can't stop the drool dribbling from his half-open mouth and down his chin. Something about that sound just stirs his stomach up even more. The smell is almost too much to bear now, and the source is right there, right on the other side of that door, taunting him.

As he shuffles in agitation, his tail flicks carelessly behind him, and knocks over a lamp.

His thoughts are torn away from the tantalising smell as the bulb hits the floor, the sudden shattering unbelievably, impossibly loud in the silent room. He can't suppress a pained growl as the noise reverberates up his spine, tail curling around his hunched body defensively. For a long, tense moment, he sits frozen, staring dumbly at the glass shards scattered over the floor and the lampshade rolling to a slow stop against the far wall. There's absolutely no way Mamoru didn't hear that. Everyone in the world must have heard that.

“Ibuki? Is that you?” The doorknob shakes again, and a fist pounds against the wood. “Open the door.”

He doesn't, of course. He just sits there, mute, as the knob rattles with enough force to shake the entire door. It takes several long minutes of banging and repeating his name before Mamoru finally falls silent, Ibuki sitting numb and motionless the entire time. Even after it stops, he stays fearfully still, heart pounding, begging Mamoru to just leave, to decide rightfully that he's not worth the trouble, to just forget about him and move on.

Then the key turns in the lock.

Of course. He'd left it right there on the floor. What a stupid idea.

“Ibuki–” Every time Mamoru repeats the name is just another twist of the knife, because “Ibuki” is long gone. There's no point in pretending any more. “–Look. Whatever this is about, I–”

The door cracks open, blinding light streaming in from the outside. Ibuki lets out a ragged, desperate noise and covers his face, squeezing his eyes shut, half to block out the light and half so he doesn't have to see Mamoru's undoubtedly horrified expression. The cowering, skeletal creature before him barely resembles the man he came looking for. He's been lied to all this time. It's only natural for him to feel betrayed and repulsed.

There's another long, agonising silence, and Ibuki waits for Mamoru to scream, or cry, or attack him, or slam the door and run, or _something_.

The only reaction he gets is a quiet “oh”.

 _Well?_ Ibuki wants to scream. _What are you waiting for?_

For a moment, nothing happens. Then, slowly, a hand reaches out and cups his cheek, gently lifting his head until his gaze meets Mamoru's.

“This is – this is why you were acting so strangely before, isn't it?”

There's undeniably a hint of fear in Mamoru's voice, but his eyes betray no hatred, no disgust, just a familiar, gentle determination. The look is so much more than Ibuki deserves, and almost identical to the image that the Deletors showed him over and over, teasing him countless times with human kindness and emotions that he could never hope to share.

He flinches away. Mamoru hesitates for a second, hand still outstretched, but doesn't attempt to touch him again.

“I'm sorry.” A weight settles on the bed next to him as Mamoru sits down. “I should have noticed sooner. Maybe I could have done something.”

Ibuki searches for a response. His heart is still pounding, louder now, and his head is so full of words, half-formed explanations and apologies and excuses, he can't figure out where to begin. _It's not your fault, you couldn't have done anything, it_ _wouldn't have mattered_ _,_ _you weren't supposed to know,_ _this was always going to happen,_ _don't be sorry_ –

It's hard to focus on words when Mamoru smells so delicious.

He'd been distracted for a moment, but now that Mamoru is so close, his scent is overwhelming. Ibuki's stomach is growling needily again, a desperate, burning emptiness chewing away at him from inside. It's been so long, and he's so hungry, and Mamoru is so _tempting_ , so sweet and warm and fresh. Grinding his teeth in agitation, he tries to ignore it, tries to focus on something else, anything else. Mamoru is saying something, and he tries to cling to that, but the words are lost beneath the unbearably loud heartbeat pounding in his ears. He'd mistaken it for his own earlier, but is just now starting to realise it belongs to the man next to him, and the thought makes him start salivating again. Even the sounds of Mamoru being alive are delicious, and if Ibuki pays attention he can hear everything – his heart beating slightly too fast, his lungs expanding and contracting, the blood rushing in his veins just beneath his skin. It'd be so simple for Ibuki to sink his claws and teeth into that skin and tear it apart, drink down that blood and relieve the dire, starving heat in his stomach.

It's too much. He can't handle it. He's just _too hungry_.

“Anjou...” he croaks, and it takes every ounce of strength he has to force the first words he's spoken in weeks from his cracked, dry throat. “Get away from me.”

Mamoru shakes his head. “I'm not going to leave you like this.” He looks down at Ibuki, and his eyes are filled with nothing but kindness. Stupid, misplaced kindness. “You don't have to do everything on your own, you know. Let me help.”

 _No_ , Ibuki tries to say, _you don't understand, I'm_ –

When he opens his mouth to speak, all that comes out is a guttural growl, and he lunges, slamming Mamoru onto his back.

Mamoru's head hits the floor with a crack and he groans, dazed, as Ibuki climbs on top of him, tail winding deftly around his legs and holding him in place. Claws dig into his wrists, pinning them against the floor, his struggles futile against their iron grip. Even in this weakened, near-starved state, Ibuki is more than a match for a human. He snarls, baring sharp, animalistic fangs, aggression spurred by the thrill of the hunt and the satisfaction of having prey pinned helplessly beneath him. He can already practically taste the flesh in his mouth. One of his bony, spiderlike appendages unfolds itself from his back, flexing leisurely, and Mamoru's eyes widen in horror at the sight of it.

“W–wait– Ibuki,” he gasps, voice tinged with poorly-disguised terror. “Ibuki, you're not–”

Ibuki stabs downward, the bony spike piercing cleanly through Mamoru's shoulder and pinning it to the ground. He screams, fragile human body convulsing in pain, and Ibuki releases his wrist, letting the trapped arm lie limp. Razor-sharp claws slice through Mamoru's shirt and tear it open, exposing the soft, pale flesh of his stomach, and Ibuki finds himself drooling again.

“Listen to me. You're not in control of yourself.” Mamoru's words are forced out in between pained gasps. Ibuki ignores them.

The prey's belly is slightly chubby, and Ibuki can't help but play with his food a little, pressing a hand against it and digging his claws in, enjoying the softness of it, the way the flesh parts so easily under his touch, blood bubbling up around his fingers. Mamoru grunts and gasps in pain, his struggles renewed but still ultimately useless, only serving to sink Ibuki's claws in deeper. If he's being honest, Ibuki has to admit it's a beautiful sight – he's always _wanted_ Mamoru, always wanted the man to be part of his life, and although he hadn't imagined having him would be quite like this, it's immensely satisfying nonetheless.

He lowers his head to Mamoru's stomach, and the meat squishes just right under his pointed teeth as he bites in.

“Ibuki! Ibuki, no–!” The words turn into another scream as Ibuki pulls back, tearing out a chunk of flesh. As he swallows, he lifts one of his monstrous, clawed hands and forces Mamoru's jaw closed. He doesn't want people to hear those screams. _He_ doesn't want to hear those screams.

Teeth sinking back in, he takes another bite, chewing slowly, relishing the way the blood squirts out and dribbles down his chin as he tips his head back to swallow. The meat slides easily down his throat and settles in his stomach, warm and heavy and satisfying, and he wonders why he didn't do this sooner. After all, this is what he'd wanted, isn't it? For him and Mamoru to be together?

Beneath him, Mamoru is still thrashing about and making muffled noises, but he's already getting weaker, less resistant, and by the time Ibuki takes his fifth or sixth bite, the only response he gets is a defeated gurgle. Blood pools around Mamoru's body, draining freely from the now massive hole torn in his stomach, and his eyes are glazed and distant. Ibuki licks blood from his lips and lets out a sigh of satisfaction. His mind feels clearer, more focused somehow now that he has something in his stomach. He reaches up and trails a claw gently down Mamoru's cheek, with just enough pressure for blood to bead along the scratch, and smiles as the man's head butts weakly against his hand. Before, he never would have admitted that he might have any kind of sentimental attraction to a human, would never have allowed himself to feel something like that, but now – he can't deny it, ever since they first met, Mamoru has been important to him. He's always wanted them to be closer. And now they finally are.

He definitely should have done this a long time ago.

Meat squelches under his teeth as he bites again, each movement of his jaw spraying warm, fresh blood over his face and hands. It really is delicious, even more so than he ever could have imagined, and he doesn't want to stop even though his stomach is starting to feel bloated. There's so much left of Mamoru still to taste, and he wants to do it now, while the man is still concious and breathing. (It's a miracle he's lasted this long, really.)

Lowering his head to Mamoru's shoulder, he opens his mouth wide, teeth grazing over the skin teasingly before sinking in. They meet bone quickly, and he bites harder, the obstruction splintering easily under the strength of his jaw. He releases his grip, then bites again, crunching the bone over and over until it's nothing but splinters amidst pulpy flesh, and then, with one final bite, he twists, and pulls, and Mamoru lets out a choking gurgle as his entire arm tears away from his body.

Ibuki tugs the arm out of the remains of its sleeve and wastes no time biting into it, pulling the flesh away in long strips and swallowing them quickly. There's something entertaining about gradually revealing the smooth, white bone beneath it all, and he licks the blood away from that too, carefully scraping away the clinging remains of flesh with his teeth until it's clean and perfect. He admires his work for a moment, and then discards it, bored, his attention turning back to Mamoru himself.

Leaning back, he takes a good look at the body beneath him. Mamoru's eyes are squeezed shut, face streaked with tears, and he seems to have given up trying to protest, offering no struggle as Ibuki rakes both sets of claws down what's left of his chest.

That's good. He understands. Ibuki _needs_ this from him. The two of them are finally going to become one.

Mamoru's lips move, letting out an airless gasp as he tries to speak. “Ibu–”

Ibuki doesn't let him finish. Tilting his head, he leans in, locks his jaw around Mamoru's throat, and _rips_. Blood sprays across the floor, and the body beneath him gurgles, convulses, and finally goes still. Ibuki swallows the mess of blood and bone and cartilage, and can't help but smile as it settles in his belly, filling him with an odd warmth and emotions he can't identify.

Mamoru really is a part of him now.

He continues eating for a while, until tiredness overtakes him, the fullness of his belly making him feel groggy and exhausted. With a yawn, he settles down against Mamoru's bloody, still-warm body. The two of them are together now, forever, and with that satisfying thought in mind, he drifts off to sleep.

 

When he wakes, he feels wet and sticky and cold, and it takes him a moment to understand why. The memories trickle back into his brain slowly – footsteps in his apartment, Mamoru's gentle touch on his face, the unbearable burning hunger, how good it felt to finally eat again after weeks of starving, his teeth digging into Mamoru's soft, sweet flesh–

His stomach churns when he realises what the cold, clammy object he's curled against is. Slowly, fearfully, he sits up, and has to fight the urge to scream when he looks down at the body next to him. Almost every part of Mamoru is ripped open, guts pulled out, flesh stripped from his limbs, huge chunks of his torso missing. His face is marked by scratches where vicious claws gripped him and held him down, but is otherwise untouched, mouth half open and eyes staring vacantly up. Somehow, that's the most sickening part.

Ibuki's stomach feels disgustingly heavy.

He looks down again at Mamoru's glassy, dead eyes, then turns away and heaves. Nothing comes out.

Desperate to get that feeling out of his stomach, he tries again, but his body won't give it up. It feels too good to finally have food inside him after so long – and the fact that he actually just thought the word _food_ in this context makes him want to vomit all over again, but no matter what he tries, shoving fingers down his throat to make himself gag, looking over at Mamoru's body again and reminding himself how horrific and disgusting this all is, nothing is enough to make his body give up its meal.

He curls up next to Mamoru's shredded corpse and cries.

**Author's Note:**

> Boy what a fucking mess.
> 
> The writing, I mean.
> 
> I just wanted cute fluffy consensual vore I don't know how this garbage happened.


End file.
